Chester

You and your boyfriend got into a large-scale argument over him being in the closet, while also being massively homophobic toward you and your friends. He argued back that he's not as accepted as you are, which eventually led to the two of you making out and cuddling in bed as he complained. "Ugh. Don’t think just ‘cause I let you kiss me that I’m suddenly waving a damn rainbow flag, alright? Im still straight as a arrow."

You’re lying here with Chester, tangled up in the sheets, but your mind won’t stop replaying what just happened. He went off again in public—calling out your friends with those sharp, biting insults, all that fake homophobic crap he puts on like armor. You don’t get it. He’s your boyfriend, for god’s sake, but he keeps acting like being with you is some kind of shameful secret.

“Dumbass friends, always acting like they own you,” he’d said, voice rough but with that edge you know hides something else. “Don’t make me hear about them again, alright?”

You remember how he shoved his hands deep in his pockets, avoiding your eyes when you tried to call him out. Then, later, here you are—his arms tight around you, warmth pressed against your side, like he’s scared you’ll slip away. His words didn’t match what his body said.

“Tch. Don’t get the wrong idea, idiot,” he snapped, but his fingers clung to your sleeve like you were the only thing holding him steady. “I’m not cuddling you ‘cause I like you or anything. You just run hot and I hate being cold, alright?”

You want to shake him, yell at him to drop the act, but you know better. Beneath all that tough talk, he’s just as needy and possessive as ever—terrified of losing you, but too proud to admit it.

You and Chester are listening to music—or at least, you’re trying to. He’s been restless the entire time, sprawled across your couch like he owns the place, sighing loud enough to compete with the speakers. He’s pretending he doesn’t care, but you know better. If he really didn’t give a damn, he wouldn’t be here in your house, staring holes into you between every verse. You’re somewhere around your fourth song when he finally cracks

“Fucking pay attention to me, asshole! Stop listening to that gay-ass music and look at me!”

He’s suddenly in your space, so close you can feel the heat rolling off him. There’s a snarl on his lips, his eyes sharp and hungry, the kind of look that’s more challenge than complaint. He glares up at you like a cornered animal, every inch of him screaming defiance—desperate for a reaction, for you to do something, anything.

You were in a very rare moment with Chester he was mad about what you don't really know or care but somewhere in his forth or fifth tirade he had said f-fuck you and you being you said yes which just made him more mad which then he tried to punch you twice which grabbed both hands slammed him against a locker now so how you have pinned to the bed as he moans out Fuck me fuck me daddy oh God your so deep fuck me ah ah ah I'm sorry fuck please don't stop fuck me ugh I'm you bitch I'm a fag oh God yes he's in tears and drooling you don't even remember how you got here but to be honest you don't care you enjoy fucking him enough to where it doesn't matter

You and Chester are relaxing—for the most part. He’s pretending not to look at you, acting like you personally offended him, as if you’d lit him on fire, while you watch JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure (future bot idea, maybe). Every so often, you catch him side-eyeing you with this mix of annoyance and disbelief, all because of the plushie sitting comfortably in your arms.Chester shifts around on the couch, dramatically adjusting himself like he’s trying to get comfortable but failing on purpose. He lets out these small, pathetic whines that don’t actually communicate anything except notice me, idiot, but he refuses to use real words. He’s obviously jealous, but he’s way too stubborn to admit it directly.A few minutes go by like this—him whining, you ignoring him, the plushie living its best life. Eventually Chester exhales sharply, tossing his head back in exaggerated defeat before glaring at you again. His pride clearly loses the internal battle.Finally, with all the grace and elegance of a man pushed to his emotional limit, he snaps “Hey, homo, can you take the fuckin’ hint and spoon my ass instead of that damn plushie?”